Apathy and Intricacies
by FluffleNeCharka
Summary: There's a murder at X, and it's up to the Patrol to solve it. But the murderer used to be Fillmore's lover, and she knows something he did long ago that could put him in jail. Now he has to chose whether to let her go free or face the past. Some IxF.
1. Intro

Author's Note: Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to my self imposed crossover month. I noticed this section doesn't spazz out at the sight of crossovers, and had just the right age set for this universe to coincide with others. And thus, enter the Invader Zim crossover. Future chapters will be longer – this is just sort of an intro. Bare with me; I'm not good at long intro sequences.

I do not own Invader Zim or Fillmore.

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There came a time in everyone's life where they were forced to wonder if they were cut out for their job.

For Fillmore and Ingrid, murder was that moment. For the entire Safety Patrol, the unasked question of 'why are we handling this' floated through the air. The tension, particularly on Vallejo's end, was thicker than it had ever been before. Danny immediately grabbed a rule book and said that the youngest kids on the Safety Patrol didn't have to investigate violent crimes. General chaos reigned within the office for an hour.

In that chaos, the Patrol's two star officers were mentally debating whether or not they could handle this. On the one hand, they were the best on the force when it came to initial investigations. That would be key in bringing this person down. On the other hand, this was out of their league. Experience or not, neither one had any experience with murderers. This was out of the Patrol's hands at this point. They didn't have the profiling techniques, the man power to keep up their normal work and investigation, or the faintest idea where to start. But even in their own heads, it was a fruitless argument. Fillmore and Ingrid could never let someone kill a student and walk away from it.

The building had been evacuated onto the opposite side of the campus, excluding those who had been in the room when it all went down. They were held as suspects currently, albeit in another room. Officers, both of the Safety Patrol and police force, walked the halls of the building and lurked in shadows, watching. No one would be able to so much as go to the bathroom without a full body search at this point. Tehama went to work alongside the forensics officer as Anza stood nearby, ready to interrogate people one on one if he had to. Ingrid set up her laptop, pressed the appropriate button so that it would record, and nodded to Fillmore.

Strolling to the front of the line of students, with a cursory glance at the body, he cleared his throat and started to speak. The assembled students stood warily in a straight line, like a police line up. Except that this time, singling someone out would be a lot harder than just asking someone to step forward.

Fillmore stared out at them, grimly. "Your rights have been read to you. You've been told you will be detained until further notice. What you haven't been told is why. To put it simply, we're here to find out who killed Dib." His eyes settled on one particular girl with purple hair, who smirked defiantly at him. "And we're not leaving until we do."


	2. Act I, Eyes of the Past

It was amazing how composed he could be right now.

She was still as beautiful as she used to be. Her hair, an indigo that could be dark blue or purple depending on the lighting, was perfectly styled. It always was. This was, after all, _her_. Every nail was perfectly black, her Kohl rimmed eyes coated in just the right amount of purple eyeshadow, and her porcelain skin completely unblemished. As per usual, her skin was even paler than Ingrid's, utterly devoid of color. Not that it mattered since her eyes held all the color in the world.

Back when this all started, her eyes were what had drawn him in. Their relationship had been comprised of looks. He would glare, she would stare back coolly. Someone would shove her into a locker, scream in her face, and she would not so much as blink, silently refusing to give them an inch. Her expressions were how she held the upper hand in any given situation. Her eyes were the only part of her that would ever betray any emotion – usually boredom. There were times when her eyes would seem to change, inexplicably, suddenly giving her a devilish, frighteningly cruel look. Fillmore felt himself smile against his own will.

To the best of his knowledge, her eyes had always been that cold, dull violet that flashed neon sometimes. He didn't understand what it was, only that it was familiar. _She_ was familiar. He inhaled and caught a stray whiff of perfume. She had not aged a day. It was like stepping back in the past, against his will, and as his eyes met hers, she smirked. The expression was as at home on her face as her usual disaffected scowl. Through half-lidded eyes, she calmly surveyed him. She knew he wouldn't call her out.

He never had.

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Even at the tender age of eleven, Tak Park had been an intimidating figure.

She knew everything, answered every question she was asked as if the teacher was an idiot, and always got her way. Always. She made it clear to bullies that to mess with her was to find themselves in a whole lot of trouble. Games would malfunction and electrocute them. Water fountains would go haywire. Their most valued possessions would go missing from their locker. All the while no one dared to retaliate, because they knew she was the cause. She was in control from the moment she set foot at X. The world, as far as she was concerned, revolved around her.

And it did. She came from a rich, powerful family. She bought and paid for her immunity, which she ran with quite happily. No amount of reporting things going missing in her presence would yield response. It wasn't about the material value of something, after all. It was about seeing the popular, smart, sporty, well off people under her control. To Tak, crime was an outlet, a way to bring the people down who crossed her. They cried, they whined, their lives fell apart. She did damage for the sake of doing damage, hurt for the sake of hurting. Fillmore had first noticed her only for her sheer malice. She was evil incarnate, the way she ruined people. She got some sort of twisted high off of it. At first, he hated her for how far she was willing to take things. Middle school crime was never supposed to be so serious. Eleven year olds were never supposed to be so dangerous. Something about her had always been off kilter.

But somehow in the midst of it all, she'd gotten him under her spell, too. He would never quite understand it. She was a rich white girl with eccentric fashion at best, who had skipped a grade. He was a middle class black boy who dressed like a thug and was in danger of flunking a grade. She was malicious, acting out of sheer sadism. He was lost, acting out some kind of middle school identity crisis. The heartless and the merciful. The deadly and the obnoxious. They should've been enemies.

Instead he was entranced by her. It wasn't really love. It was just… Something else. Something raw, something passionate and out of control. He got what could only be described as a contact high from being near her, hearing her voice. That smooth, British accented drawl that held absolutely no mercy made his skin crawl. Actually, a good deal of how he felt around her was just plain fear. Wonderful, blissful, adrenaline generating fear. Tak was his own beautifully horrible personal hell. He was enslaved to her commanding nature, and she was more than happy to let him serve her. He let her get away with things he would have turned in even Sonny for. Mostly since, when he did so, Tak would smirk evilly, capture his chin in her long, spindly fingers, and give him a kiss that was more bite than kiss. Just like that, all hints of guilt would fade away.

Until Wayne. Wayne's hatred for Tak was deep and long lasting. She would never turn good, had no desire to, and thought him a fool for suggesting it. One of the reasons Fillmore had been on the wrong side for so long was her. Her soft voice, doubting his salvation. Telling him he was just like her. Whispering, suggesting, sneering, hurting, consoling – Tak had been wrapped around her finger. But then finally Wayne had gotten through to him. Isolated in the white and black room, where no other students sat, Fillmore had thought clearly for the first time in months. He took Wayne's offer. He turned it around.

Eventually she lost contact with him when he turned over a new leaf. She moved from school to school for a bit, building her resources and getting her kicks. The last time he'd seen her, she'd had some new boy toy she was playing with, one with green eyes and red hair. Not that it mattered. The new him had no interest in her. The only word that he could use to describe how he felt now was shame. Part of it was his upbringing in black churches with Reverends who warned against pretty girls with ulterior motives. He had been specifically warned against girls like her and played right into her hands. He had let her berate, belittle, and use him for her own purposes, and he had loved it. A part of him would always enjoy, on some bizarre level, the vicious sweetness that was Tak. That part was now overshadowed by the part that was utterly ashamed he had ever stooped so low.

There was no doubt she'd murdered Zim.

He doubted she'd intended to. Tak wasn't stupid. She didn't want to get caught. She'd probably intended to knock him out. Fillmore knew from memory that Zim had gotten Tak kicked out of her old school, although the details were lost to time. What he'd done was unclear. How she'd even planned to take her revenge was unclear at the time. All he knew was that there was no other suspect. She had never been one to let things go. She held grudges, took vengeance, hurt people and loved it all. Zim had made the mistake of crossing her twice when everyone else was lucky to get past her once. It was all clear as day.

Still she smiled amiably at him. She had the upper hand as always. She had him cornered. Always. What she realized, however, as he smiled hatefully back, was that she no longer had _him_. A certain other Goth girl did. Well, well. X Middle School certainly had been busy while she was away. A new Patroller had been added, and Wayne was missing. Good. He had always been Fillmore's voice of morality, telling him what to do in times of crisis. If what Tak remembered still hold true, then he was far from steadfast in his resolve. It should be easy to get him to give her a break on her murder.

After all, she'd helped him on his.


	3. Act II, To Profile the Innocent

Author's Note: I apologize, everyone. This chapter, in its efforts to profile six possible criminals, became overly description filled and rather dull. But it must be done to keep the investigatory theme of this fanfic, and I attempted to make it as interesting as I could. I hope that you like it. As you can see, I've also been working at keeping the length of the fic more or less consistant after the introduction. Let me know if there's anything I can improve. Also, excuse my grammar tonight. My college Psychology test was hell on Earth, and I fear my brain may more or less be shot at this point. I'll correct any errors tomorrow, I promise. :)

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"Now, we're going to root out those of you who obviously can't have done it. Everyone who's in sixth grade or lower wasn't allowed to bring anything other than a pencil and paper in here. You also weren't let in until thirty seconds before the crime took place. With that in mind, will all sixth graders please go to the opposite side of the room?" Fillmore instructed calmly.

Ingrid smiled faintly, knowing he was right. There was no way a sixth grader could have done this. That cut out ten kids off the bat, effectively cutting the number of suspects in half. Bringing up files on the remaining ten, she scrolled through them instantly. In addition to her photographic memory, Ingrid had always been blessed with instantaneous comprehension. Unfortunately, several people here had a bit of a record for criminal activities, which left them all under suspicion. Hopefully her partner had a way of narrowing it down. As if reading her mind, he smirked at her. Watching him with narrowed eyes, she realized that he was watching the faces of the officers more than anything else, searching for confirmation that his instincts were right on. He needed to work with them seamlessly for this to go well. On a personal note, he thought to himself, he needed to calm down for his cover not to be blown. No one here could know he even knew Tak's name, let alone had a bias towards her.

"Alright," Fillmore said shortly. "The teacher's assistants are out, because you were right next to her at the time. On that note, the two special needs kids are right out for obvious reasons –we know they wouldn't hurt a fly."

That narrowed it down to six people. Ingrid smiled at him. He could always come through for the Patrol when it came to gut feeling and logic. Now the remaining six shared worried glances and shuffled uneasily. Tak was wearing a neutral expression. She and Fillmore were very determined not to meet each others eyes, but no one noticed except Ingrid. Fillmore glanced over at her, and singled for her to read some of it out loud with a simple look. His partner nodded, understanding as only she could. The police needed to hear the basics behind the suspects to get this done right, and Ingrid Third could recite facts off the top of her head like a well oiled machine.

"Kuzha Pari," Ingrid read, and a white haired black boy in a white tuxedo stepped forward. "Age 15. Here for eighth grade math and geometry due to India's schooling system lagging behind there. Used to have a pyromania problem, but since moving to X has joined two support groups and ceased having problems. He has been busted once for being over the legal caffeine limit here at X. I believe it was last Thursday?"

"Yes," he said, nodding solemnly. "I was supposed to be doing school service right now in order to make up for it. Will I be allowed to make it up later on?"

"Under the Caffeine Regulation Code, you have no choice but to do so," Ingrid said, and held out a Bible to him. "Place your right hand on this. I know you're Hindu, but my other holy books are in the West Building, so we'll have to make due. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God, and accept harsher sentencing from the law if you are found to be lying under oath?"

"I do."

With that, he moved back to stand with the other suspects, and Ingrid continued on.

"On Ji Po." A Chinese girl in a navy blue cheongsam and black pants with blue eyes stepped forward. "Age 13, newly switched into this class for math when the other math period was over crowded with new students. On Ji was also scheduled for school service today due to excessive absences over the past school year. Before that, however, she's had a flawless record except for a single detention in fourth grade."

On Ji swore on the Bible and stepped back into the line. Out of all of them, she looked the most nervous, biting her lip and shifting from foot to foot. Honestly, however, as Anza, Fillmore and Ingrid sized her up, all three instantly declared her innocent in their own minds. She had no motivation whatsoever and, further more, had never done anything harmful to anyone. Her nervousness was what marked her as innocent. Only people who were well experienced talking to the Safety Patrol and police were calm and collected when they came up. Kuzha had been running his hands through his hair ever since they entered lockdown mode. The two of them, who had never done anything to harm other people, were not high on the priority list.

"Tyrique Freeman," Ingrid read off the computer. "Age 14, second year taking this same class, but a fairly good student otherwise. Given twelve detentions over the course of three months for wearing gangster colors, starting fights with kids in opposite gang colors, and swearing. Suspended last year for bringing a knife to school, although Anza was able to prove to the student court that it had been without intent to harm. Less than stellar comments from teachers in regards to behavior, multiple citations for dress code violation, and foul language."

Tyrique was a big boy, both wide and tall, with a thick, muscled build that made him look 16 or 17 easily. His hair was in cornrows, but despite his profile he had managed to obey the dress code today. His jeans weren't baggy enough to warrant complaint, his sweatshirt didn't have a hood, and his hat was off indoors. Clearly he thought, like many students did, that the Safety Patrol profiled suspects by race. It was a false idea, of course. Most crooks Ingrid could recall in her past months at X had been white. But if the way he solemnly swore and gave everyone his best innocent eyes was any indication, he was at least trying not to start a scene. That was good since, to be quite honest, Ingrid doubted the cops could hold him if he made a break for it. She noticed him eyeing Fillmore hopefully. Clearly he thought the only honest officer in the room was the one with whom he shared some ancestry.

"Dib Spade," Ingrid blinked at the odd surname, "Age 12, transferred in last semester due to the overcrowding of the other advanced math class. Extremely bright, a straight A student, but with severe behavioral problems. Depression, suicidal tendencies, irrational bouts of anger, and most prominently, extreme paranoia. Skips school, picks fights, argues with teachers, believes most of his classmates are paranormal lifeforms – the list goes on. But that's the basics of it." She glanced up at him with slightly widened eyes. "It says here that you believed the deceased was an alien. Under X Middle School regulations, you're going to have to sign a statement confirming that once we can get it printed."

Dib nodded. A thin, long legged, big headed boy, his black hair had been styled into a scythe of sorts. Dressed today in a trenchcoat, black pants and a shirt with an eye of Horus on it, he took the oath without even a shred of nervousness. To him, this was no big deal. His calm demeanor mirrored what it said on his profile: he was well versed in dealing with the police. Having been thrown out and banned from many places in his life, he calmly dealt with this murder as if it was just another day. And perhaps, in a mind where his teacher was a shadow creeper and another student an alien, this _was_ just another day. What Ingrid and the assembled officers did not fail to notice, however, was the way he kept glancing at the body in the corner. He could barely contain his manic grin at the sight, smirking and crossing his arms triumphantly. Behind his glasses, his amber eyes were focused on that corner throughout the whole thing. He was very, very happy Zim was dead.

Mentally placing Dib up as a high priority suspect, Ingrid continued the suspect profiling. "Tatum del Toro, age 13. Tests well enough to be in a different math class, but held back due to the language barrier. Two fights with other students over the course of the two weeks she's been at X, but over racial slurs. The student court gave her a reduced sentence of thirty minute janitorial service under the school's Four Month Foreign Immunity Act, which allows for lesser punishments for students who are immigrants."

In perfect Spanish, Ingrid spoke to her for a long moment before asking her to take the oath. In hesitant, faltering English, the short girl struggled through it until one of the police officers stated she could take it in her own language. She did so and moved back to stand by On Ji, casting a fearful glance at Dib. Her short, dark red wine hair was somewhat messy, and her hand me down black jeans and T-shirt were several sizes too big. Her tan complexion grew red when she fumbled with her English. Instantly, Ingrid decided she couldn't have done it. She didn't speak enough of the language to even really know Zim, and was half Zim's height. Even if her life depended on it, the Mexican girl couldn't have taken him down. Tatum stared at Ingrid, fearfully tracking with her ruby eyes the only person that could fully understand her.

Which brought them to their last suspect.

"Tak Park, age 13. A brilliant art and music student with some withdrawn tendencies. Unfriendly, silent, uncooperative, doesn't work well in groups, prone to daydreaming in class. Nothing has ever been proven, but over a thousand separate students in the past two years have complained about her, stated she had robbed them, or been otherwise bullied by her."

The British-Korean-American girl took the oath with no emotion whatsoever in her voice. When she glanced at the body, she quickly cringed and turned away, as if disgusted by the sight. Standing back in line, decked out in a purple sleeveless dress and her signature black silver toed boots, she turned her head very pointedly in the opposite direction. Ever since this began, she hadn't looked over at Zim. This was understandable, since there was blood all over the floor and the stench was neigh on unbearable. What Ingrid didn't catch was the way Tak raised an eyebrow at Fillmore, meeting his eyes evenly. Silently, she was asking him what he was about to do. Equally silently, he nodded once, and turned his eyes on the other suspects. He couldn't allow her to get the blame, so even if all his morals went against it, he would have to blame someone else. Someone who everyone would believe could have done it.

Dib.


	4. Act III, A Growing Void

Author's Note: Eh, a little shorter than I would've liked, but the cliffhanger felt good, so I decided not to expand upon it past that point. Hopefully it works.

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Guilt was the one emotion that could truly overwhelm him.

When he first turned to crime, he was lashing out. He was angry, furious with life. He was tired of being treated like crap. He was tired of playing by the rules. Fillmore was sick of people doing good and never getting anywhere because of it. He was sick of people telling him how good it felt to be good. It didn't feel good to help people out. Not when the reward was life spitting on him. It felt good to be bad, to finally release all his rage on the world that had never done anything good for him.

Then the initial high of being bad wore off. Then Tak wore off. And he was left with nothing. There was nothing inside him. The spoils of his life of crime weren't worth it. He knew that other kids would kill to have what he had. He also knew that no matter what he told himself, when he was alone there was a void inside him. He didn't want this. He didn't want these friends, these things, this life, those crimes. Someone he'd become someone, something that he didn't recognize, a walking black stereotype, and he hated it. But he was powerless, too busy trying to front that he was fine to actually admit that he wasn't into this. Only Wayne's intervention had made him realize that he had a choice in the matter. Wayne lifted him out of the bleakness Tak sought to keep him in, setting him on the right path at long last.

It was too late, though. What was done was done.

He could never forgive himself for who he had become. Every criminal he busted, every fight he fought, he was trying to make up for the past. He wanted everyone to believe he had changed. If they did, then he could believe it himself. If everyone could just see that the boy who robbed and fought and cussed was gone, then he would finally be able to heal. One day he would lay his head down on his pillow and not think of all the things he'd done before, all the nightmares he'd caused other people. He was a horrible, pathetic thug. He wasn't worthy of this second chance. Now that he had it, he had to atone for what he was, or more truthfully, what he had been.

It was hard not to be consumed with self loathing. He had been so arrogant. He thought the world revolved around him. He'd bought into the hip-hop lies that stealing was cool and being rich was what counted. Fillmore had treated women like dirt. He'd talked like a sailor. He'd made his mother cry, gotten into screaming fights with his father, and disappointed his whole family. All the while he had thought he was great. He thought he was cooler than cool. What a moron he'd been. Selfish. Stupid. Self absorbed. Fillmore could easily spend hours despising who he had been. Instead he turned that anger into righteous anger, using it to motivate him in his job. He caught all the right crooks and stopped all the hard crimes because he had to. If he didn't, he would hate himself.

And now he would have to go against everything he had become, and sentence an innocent boy to juvenile hall. Juvie, in other words. It would ruin Dib's life, turning him into a social outcast and depress him even further. He'd definitely worsen in the mental illness department after this. But Fillmore didn't see much of a choice here.

He couldn't break everyone's hearts all over again. He couldn't tell everyone what he'd done, and see it all fall apart. It had taken months to win back the respect and trust of his parents. He still had yet to win back the teachers. He couldn't ever seem to quell his past street rep. Everyone was convinced that once a sinner, always a sinner. All he wanted was to be an honest man, a respectable person, and someone people could rely on. For the past year, he had poured everything that he was into changing himself. He couldn't see it all blow up in his face. It would hurt Ingrid, destroy his parents, ruin the Safety Patrol, and damage Folsom's credibility all in one move. Everyone's lives would be shattered. He would never be able to recover his honor. More than that, his family wouldn't be able to show their faces. Wayne would be crushed. His friends would be horrified. He had to do this.

He had to condemn an innocent boy to a lifetime of shame and agony. And he had to do it with a stern look on his face, as if he truly believed that Dib was guilty. So with a deep breath, he began to question the six assembled students, knowing before they answered who would be sentenced to juvie. His expression was neutral. His voice was smooth. The only hint that anything was wrong at all was that, from time to time, his knees felt weak. He compensated by pacing back and forth, hoping no one noticed that his hands were shaking slightly from time to time. Fortunately for Tak, none of the officers noticed.

Fortunately for Dib, Ingrid did.

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Under school regulations, breaks in interrogation were mandatory every thirty minutes. If sufficient supervision was provided, the accused were allowed a short break to walk, eat, drink, or go to the bathroom.

It was during this break that Fillmore fled, his stomach twisting uncomfortably inside. Knowing that the building was empty and the officers would let him pass, he walked quicker than usual. Going up two flights of stairs, he located the scarcely used boys bathroom at the end of a pitch black hallway. Ducking in, he was grateful for the warm air and familiar putrid smell. After using the bathroom, he splashed water on his face. Glancing up, he saw his eyes were bloodshot. Thankfully his glasses concealed that. Wiping his face with a paper towel, he breathed deep, telling himself to keep it together, and reached for his glasses.

Except that they weren't there.

Somehow it wasn't much of a shock to find Ingrid Third blocking the door, his glasses clutched in one hand. He should have expected it. He couldn't see her very clearly, but he knew her by smell and sound at this point. The distinct shuffle of her boots was opposite of the tapping Tak's made. She smelled of sandalwood and spices where Tak had always smelled like lavender. Then, of course, there was the way Ingrid reached out to gently touch his hand. She wasn't embarrassed to enter the boys bathroom. The smell didn't bother her. Not if it was for him, anyway. For him, everything was bearable and fine. She stood there for a moment, watching him closely, before speaking quietly.

"You okay?" she asked plainly.

He nodded. The urge to blurt everything out struck him like a blow to the gut, and he groaned, rubbing his head. No, no he wasn't okay. He felt sick to his stomach. He couldn't do this. For the past – he glanced at the clock – half an hour, he had pointed out all of Dib's mental instability and made a mockery of Dib's claims. He had pointed out all the times Dib had assaulted students in the past. He snickered audibly at Dib's claims that Zim was an alien trying to destroy Earth. Ingrid had watched him with growing confusion in her eyes. This wasn't like him. Fillmore didn't pick on people. He could _do _it, technically, but it was making him sick just to try. Weakly, he tried to grin at her.

"I'm fine, just a little tired."

Ingrid crossed her arms and leaned against a sink. "That's nice. Wanna tell me what's really going on here?"

For a long moment, he was silent. He couldn't keep a secret from her. Actually, he just didn't want to keep anything from her. He felt that familiar void inside, as if he was trapped in nothingness all over again. Turning to her, his voice barely a whisper, he confessed, "I know who did it, Ingrid."

Her eyes went wide. "Then why are you picking on Dib?" she returned, her voice equally hushed.

"If I don't blame the wrong person, my life is about to go to hell and back. I – I did some things before, Ingrid. Things I'm not proud of. All it would take is one person to send me to juvie for the rest of my school years. I can't let everyone down like that. But…" his voice cracked, and she realized with some astonishment that he was almost ready to cry, "I can't do this, Ingrid."

She could have made him tell her. She could have gotten angry with him. She could have told him he was selfish. But those were the words of a Safety Patrol Officer, and she ceased to be that as she moved closer to him. Seeing the tears leaking down his face, she was just Ingrid, his best friend, not Officer Third. Officer Third had a legal obligation to turn him in. Ingrid just had the obligation to be there for him. Wrapping her arms around him, she held him close. After a moment of internal debate, he laid his head on her shoulder, eyes closed tight. Her body was cool even in the sweltering room, and her eyes were kind even though she must've been doubting him. For a long moment they stood there, engulfed in silence, far from prying eyes and ears, and Fillmore felt the knot in his stomach grow worse as his contemplated what this would do to her.

"I can't tell you what to do, Fillmore. I'm not God and I don't know what's right and wrong," she murmured into his ear. "All I can say is that I'll back you up. I always will. And no matter what happened, I'll never think you've let me down."

"Thanks, Ingrid," he muttered, taking his glasses back and reluctantly detangling himself from her cool form. "Will you go downstairs and tell everyone on the Patrol to come up to the history room on the second floor? I've made my decision. We're sending someone off to juvie tonight."

Ingrid nodded, leaving him with one last comforting smile and warm, benign gaze. She trusted him. She thought he would do the right thing; she had absolute faith in it. Only when her footsteps faded down the hallway did he turn back to the sink, looking at himself in the mirror. No matter what happened, he would always think of himself as a criminal. Nothing would ever change that. This decision might hurt her, and he wasn't sure if confessing to her was the right thing to do. He wasn't sure he could ever confess the whole of what he'd done, even to his best friend. All he was sure of was that someone was going to juvie tonight.

But it wouldn't be him.


	5. Act IV, Taking Stands

Author's Note: Okay, okay, so I owe Misty a bit of an apology. I didn't get your review right away because the site was being all glitchy on me. But to answer your question, I'm just hinting hard that Ingrid loves and trusts in Fillmore. He's a bit more ambiguous. I think the brief hug in the last chapter is all we're going to get on the physical front, though. Past that it's just a battle of emotions and trust and all that good stuff that blurs the lines between friends and something more. It could be read as either friendship or more, I guess. That's what I'm aiming for, here – a sort of 'toeing the line' relationship.

Also, I'd like to thank the Queen of Randomness and Quirky Misty for being the fastest reviewers ever. At this point, when I upload a new Fillmore fic I just _know_ you two will review, avid readers that you are, and it means a lot to me.

With that out of the way, let's move on to the next chapter. I should be sleeping right now, since I have Psychology in the morning, but screw it, this is more fun.

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Dib was numb inside.

He had been beaten down by life. He was always the loser, always the one people blamed when things went wrong, and now this had to happen. He had never been someone other people stood up for, but he never expected everyone to stand there silently as he was accused of murder. He wanted to cry out. He wanted to yell he was innocent. He hadn't done it, he really hadn't. His hatred of Zim wasn't that deep. He would never have done something like that. Desperately, he looked from face to face, searching for help. None came as Fillmore read off the charges. No one ever helped Dib.

His mother had died when he was born. His father had been home six times since then. His sister was completely anti-social. It was up to him to keep his world in tact. It was up to him to get Gaz dressed and fed and off to school on time. He kept the house clean. He fought to save the world. He was the one who was pulling all nighters to keep his grades up and check over his little sister's work. He bought the groceries, paid the bills, and fought the aliens. He was trying so hard. All he'd ever wanted was to do good. With Zim alive, he would have been able to prove to the world that aliens were real. With Zim dead he might've been able to at least try to convince the world of the truth. But now his whole life was coming undone in front of him.

"Please," he whispered to the others behind him, "Help me."

His ex-girlfriend Tak smirked, and he just _knew_. He knew with a sinking feeling that made him fall to his knees that she was guilty and he was going to juvie for it. Hot tears of anger brewed in his eyes. No. No. This wasn't right. This wasn't fair. He glared at her, fists clenched so hard that his knuckles turned white. He couldn't defend himself against these charges if no one would stick up for him and confirm his alibi, if no one would stand up for his rights as a person. Because, Dib realized weakly, he was always the loser, never a person. Just life's eternal punchingbag.

"Enough!"

Fillmore looked up for the cause of the disturbance. "Excuse me?"

Tatum del Toro took several steps forward, reaching out to gently squeeze Dib's shoulder. Looking Fillmore dead in the eye, she loudly proclaimed, "I did it. I killed Zim. Dib is innocent, and I can't let you ruin him for being at the wrong place at the wrong time."

Dib's jaw dropped, as did many other people's, as the Mexican girl drew herself up to full height. Dressed in a raggy shirt and baggy pants with holes in the knees, she looked as regal as a queen as she spoke better than she ever had in her entire life. Her ruby eyes were steady, her voice unwavering, her resolve without falter. Her hand slid off of Dib as she raised her arms and continued fiercely, staring into the eyes of the officer in front of her. Fillmore wasn't sure how, but she knew Dib was innocent. She felt it, she spoke it, and she breathed it as she bore the blame for a crime he _knew_ she did not ocmmit.

"I have a gun in my left pocket, there's blood on my shirt, and Dib has neither. Let him go, Officer. You have your girl right here."

Dib looked as if he might die of shock. He stared at her, as she refused to turn around and glance back uncertainly. Tatum's heart was beating so fast in her chest she was sure it was audible. Still, she did not back down. No, no more. She was tired of seeing people beaten down and broken by false charges. There was a dead look in Dib's eye that infuriated her. No more. No more police lying and picking on those they could. No more innocent people in jail. Not now, not if she could stop it. Briefly, she flickered her eyes in his direction, and smiled confidently, as if to say _it's okay, I'm here_.

Fillmore went as pale as a black person could be. Ingrid took one look at him and knew Tatum was lying outright. This wasn't how he'd planned it out. Even Tak looked surprised. But the Mexican girl produced a gun and a knife, and the blood stains on her shirt were genuine. She held out her hands to be cuffed, staring defiantly at the officers as if daring them not to take her in. For the first time in his career, Fillmore froze, unable to bring himself to cuff her. He looked anywhere but at her, knowing that her eyes would be her undoing. Finally, cringing and feeling awkward all the while, he slapped the cuffs on her wrists and handed her off to the police officers.

When he had presented the case, Fillmore had pointed out Dib's mental instability. His suicide attempts, breaks from reality, violent fighting, screaming, disruptive behavior, and long record of insane and outlandish claims had him marked as the truest suspect. He hated Zim. He had video tapes of Zim in his locker, doodled him in notebooks, wrote whole journals about him. He obsessed over his enemy to the point where he did English essays and science fair projects about him. Dib was the easiest target. He had no friends, he was constantly doing insane and violent things, and his home life sucked. He was blatantly guilty even when he claimed to be innocent. Tatum hadn't come forward to verify he was by the window talking to her when it all happened. Now Fillmore's case had fallen apart due to one girl's sudden bout of bravery.

But one good thing had come out of it.

He had another chance. He could come clean of all of it. He could do it, if he ran down to the office and decided to screw over his own future. He could do it if he would only forsake his whole career. The churning void filled him, and he turned to Ingrid. Silently, his expression begged the question, 'what do I do?'. Her eyes answered, 'do it', and he knew what she meant. It was time to stop this before it all spiraled out of control. So, on shaking legs, he chased after the police, Ingrid en tow, to finally tell the world what had happened so long ago. Even if he'd never live it down, he couldn't do this anymore. No more lies, no more masks to hide behind. Tak could go screw herself for all he cared.

And twenty feet ahead, as Tatum heard the footsteps, she smiled, her knees going weak.

Thank God, her plan had worked.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For a long time, Tatum del Toro had been the kind of person who _snapped_.

She was meek and weak and soft spoken, until someone insulted her heritage. She never knew the answer until the boy next to her needed it. She was poor until someone couldn't buy lunch, and suddenly then she had money. She did not understand it, although her grandmother fondly referred to it as Idiot's Courage. It was part of who she was, a sudden lack of fear that left her worse off every time. Still, she had no regrets about the stupid proclamation that she was the killer. Was it a good idea? No. But it was the right thing to do. So in her mind, it was the only thing she could do.

The gun was Tyrique's. She had asked for it, explaining in a trembling voice what she was planning. He didn't want her to do it, but she would not be shaken. Finally he gave it to her with the promise that he would help her if she was in trouble. She didn't know what good a boy she had one class with could do her right now. Right now she was being stared at as if she was a madwoman. Her knees shook. There was a chance that the officers weren't coming to tell everyone who really did it. Still, she thought to herself, no regrets. Not ever. Not for Dib, the boy whom the whole class seemed to hate even as he sat there taking quiet notes.

Someone had to take a stand. She knew he hadn't done it. She had been talking to him, looking at him directly, when the gun was fired. He had been not even a foot from her. Her back was to Zim. What had happened, she wasn't sure. All she knew was who was innocent, and that she had to stand up for him, even if no one else did. Someone had to decide that the shoving, taunting and mocking Dib received would stop, now. He was no criminal. He was a genius with a touch of madness. He was a depressed, downtrodden boy that only wanted to live in peace. But even the officers of peace seemed to be against him here. So she had been an idiot, and said the only thing she could think of to save him.

Right now she was snapping back to terror. Not regret, just fear. She was so scared of what was to come that her legs threatened to give out underneath her. Her breathing was a bit fast. Her eyes darted from person to person. She still refused to take back what she had said. Whether that was brave or dumb, she didn't know, as she was deposited roughly onto the couch in Principal Folsom's office. For a moment she simply composed herself, sitting up and flipping her hair out of her face, reluctantly meeting Folsom's accusing gaze.

"I did it," she whispered softly, and it was then that Officers Fillmore and Third burst into the office.

"She's lying!" Fillmore shouted. "I know who did it, I can prove it, I got motive, weapon, lack of an alibi, backstory and proof!"

"Dib did not–" Tatum started hastily.

"It wasn't him, it was Tak!" Fillmore said firmly. "She did it, I swear to God I know she did it."

Folsom sighed, rubbing her temples and shaking her head. "Fillmore, this girl is confessing. Why on Earth would someone do that if she wasn't guilty? It's like… like… Raycliffe?"

"Like getting frostbite on the sun?" he suggested helpfully.

"Yes, like getting frostbite on the sun." Folsom smiled briefly, a strained effort to lighten the dark mood that seemed to suffocate the room.

"She's confessing to keep Dib from going down, because she knows he didn't do it." The black boy breathed in sharply, exhaling slowly. "Tak did it. But she – she used to be my girl, Principal Folsom. She could blackmail me to hell and back, so I caved, and I gave her what she wanted. And what she wanted for someone to go to jail so she wouldn't have to."

The principal stared at him incredulously. "So why are you going back on that now? I can't provide protection from a gossipy girlfriend, Fillmore. No one can."

Fillmore looked far away for a moment, before speaking softly, his tone grave. "Because I can't let innocent people go to juvie. I can't ruin people's lives, not anymore. I pulled enough of that when I was a thug. That's not me anymore, and I won't go back to that. It's over. If someone is good, they shouldn't get the fall just because the bad guy has more power. Tatum showed me that. I'm going back on Tak to set everything right, no matter what the cost. So while the police go search Tak, I got something to confess to you, Folsom. And it ain't gonna be pretty."

She managed to look impressed as she motioned for the police to leave. Tatum was released from the handcuffs, since she was not enough of a threat to justify their use. She shot him an approving smile as she was escorted out of the office. Ingrid closed the door behind her. The click was deafening in the silence that followed. Folsom straightened out some papers on her desk, a nervous habit that she had picked up lately, before looking at the black boy in front of her expectantly. While his partner sank into the couch, Fillmore stood, eyes closed as he inhaled deeply. This wasn't going to be easy. He wasn't even sure if he could do it. He wasn't sure what would happen if he could manage to tell the truth. Honestly, the only two things he knew right now were that this was right, and Ingrid was behind him one hundred percent.

"Do you remember last year, the death of Riza Ixi?"

Folsom nodded grimly.

Fillmore took a deep breath, then another, before he began. "It wasn't an accident…"


End file.
